Search Salon

- - - - - - - - - - - -

Recently in Salon Media

Column
Rosebud
A last word on last words, and on the media we love to hate to love.
By James Poniewozik
[06/28/99]

Alt
Whither fair lesbians?
Gay Pride marches on, leaving its lesbian sisters to cough up the dust. Plus: The Boston Phoenix reports on Starbucks' latest conquest and why pheromone perfumes only make you stink.
By Jenn Shreve
[06/25/99]

Media
Ann of a thousand lays
Ten modest proposals to help Ann Coulter get a date.
By Thor Hesla
[06/25/99]

Media
Keeping up with the Jonesness
The corporate mania for "brand essence" is getting just a little out of control.
By Justin Holloway
[06/24/99]

Column
Toto, I'm not Dave Kansas anymore
So what's wrong with Web journalists becoming stock tycoons?
By James Poniewozik
[06/21/99]

Complete archives for Media

- - - - - - - - - - - -

- - - - - - - - - - - -

Brought to America by Irish and German immigrants, wrestling as theater thrived on the carny circuit for decades. Eventually, local promoters began carving out their territories. In New England, it was Capital Wrestling, run by Vince McMahon Sr., which over the years played home to stars like Gorgeous George and Bruno Sammartino. There were a few large-scale shows and occasional evidence as well that the faux sport was flirting with mainstream awareness; Bob Hope might crack a jape at Gorgeous George's expense. But for the most part, the wrestlers would wrapped their hands around their opponents' necks and roam around small-town armory rings for what seemed like hours at a time. The style was dubbed "scientific" in hopes of persuading fans they were watching contests of skill instead of scripted entertainment. Even up to the early 1980s, wrestling remained overwhelmingly low-rent and slightly pathetic, ripe for the devastating parody wreaked upon it by Andy Kaufman during his feud with Memphis' king of the ring, Jerry Lawler.

Then along came Vince Jr. Court-martialed from the Fishburne Military School in Waynesboro, Va., as a kid, McMahon eventually went to work with his father. Built like a wrestler himself, the younger McMahon bought the company in the early '80s, infused it with a rock 'n' roll style and took it mainstream. The "story lines" -- shifting feuds and alliances among the characters -- were ratcheted up; explosions erupted like at Kiss concerts and anthems marked the stars' staged entrances. He even admitted the matches were rigged. It didn't matter, though. In 1987, 93,000 fans packed the Pontiac Silverdome for "Wrestlemania III," starring a classic face-off between "baby-face" Hulk Hogan and a "heel," Andre the Giant. By building an empire around cable television McMahon shattered what for decades had been a regional business operated by scores of old-time promoters. Now he owned the sport. Celebrities like Cyndi Lauper, who symbolized the rock-wrestling connection, and later Mike Tyson were brought onboard to spice up story lines, while Pamela Anderson and others were paid to make head-turning ringside appearances. The press loved the cheesy glitz; McMahon loved the wrestling-watching parties springing up on college campuses and blue-chip advertisers coming aboard to court a surprisingly elevated demographic. (In one survey, as many as one in four fans had an income of more than $50,000 a year.) It was all light-years away from the homely wrestling crowds his dad used to court. (Full disclosure: A few months back I was asked to help write a WWF wrestler's biography. A deal was never struck, though, and I never met or spoke with Vince McMahon.)

But like any great wrestling story line, McMahon's reign at the top was cut unexpectedly short. The problem for McMahon was that this story wasn't scripted. In 1994 the WWF chief was dragged before a New York judge to answer allegations about steroid use among the WWF's obviously pumped-up wrestlers. Following some tawdry testimony, McMahon, who had previously admitted taking steroids before possession became illegal, was acquitted on charges that he'd distributed the drugs.

But Ted Turner was watching. He saw that the WWF was vulnerable, and decided it was time to beef up his own league, the WCW. He raided the WWF's locker room (including, most humiliatingly, Hulk Hogan), boosted salaries and scheduled his own prime-time wrestling show directly opposite WWF's.

For a year and a half Turner and the WCW owned Monday-night wrestling. WWF's arena shows no longer sold out. McMahon got desperate, and tried to play the victim. He filed suit with the Federal Trade Commission, alleging that Turner, using his TBS Superstation, was trying to create a monopoly (this after McMahon had spent most of the '80s snuffing out every competitor in sight). Most amusingly, McMahon even took a shot at cultural sanctimony: During a '95 sports talk show appearance, he said that the WCW was too raunchy, and that Turner's wrestlers "give our business a bad name. It's so important for us to be able to uphold this standard of ethics we do."

Finally, McMahon got a glimpse of the future: Its name was Stone Cold Steve Austin. A profanity-spewing tough guy, Austin ushered in a new era of ring superstar. A baby-face like Hogan might tell kids to eat their vitamins; Austin told fans to shove it up their ass, and they loved him for it. And with McMahon casting himself as Austin's on-screen nemesis, the evil, overbearing boss who wasn't afraid to mix it up in the ring, the WWF launched one of its most successful promotions. Simple good and bad was out, and murky gray areas were in, along with hookers, pimps, crucifixions, the occult, porn stars and butt shots. (During one infamous between-bout sketch, WWF wrestler Sexual Chocolate was seen getting simulated head backstage from a transvestite.) Parents protested that WWF programming was no longer suitable for kids. A wide-eyed McMahon assured them that it wasn't intended for kids in the first place, and then signed a pay-per-view sponsorship with a squirt-gun manufacturer.

Besides adding the skin and the carnage, McMahon and his team of script writers did a masterful job hatching elaborate on-screen rivalries, concocting a new slate of marketable characters (Austin, The Godfather, The Rock), and coining their catch phrases ("Austin 3:16," "Pimpin' ain't easy!" and "Do you smell what the Rock is cookin'?"). The WWF not only won back wrestling fans from the more tepid WCW, it cornered the mainstream 18-to-35 male demographic as well. More of them watch WWF's "Raw Is War" on the USA Network than watch "Monday Night Football."

And can you blame them? In all of television, find a more electrifying intro than the 30-second opening to Monday night's "Raw is War" -- a raging, quick-edit combustion of heavy-metal music and wounded warriors.

Just a few years after the company's 1994 nadir, live WWF arena shows now sell out weeks in advance. The company takes in nearly $400 million a year from pay-per-view shows, home video and syndicated programming alone, not to mention the millions more from T-shirts, action figures and, yes, even WWF ice cream on a stick, one of 150 products licensed by the WWF. The league's parent company, Titan Sports, also controlled by McMahon and valued at $750 million, is reportedly at work renovating a recently purchased Manhattan property, turning it into a new sports and television production studio.

Finally, there's Wall Street. There's word McMahon will team up with Bear Stearns investors for an IPO. He reportedly wants to raise $150 million in order to build a new WWF-themed hotel in Las Vegas.

Could all this be derailed over a humorless in-joke that went deadly wrong?

Next page | After Hart's death: Wrong decision after wrong decision